Behind My Back
by L J Groundwater
Summary: A one-shot following a prompt I see out there about Liz seeing Red's scars. Was playing in my head anyway, might as well do it now! Please let me know what you think (and thanks for the nudge, ladies, hope you don't mind I picked this one up!)...


**I own nothing connected with this show, except for my imagination. Following on a prompt that seems to be out there about Liz seeing Red's burn scars... please let me know what you think.  
**

***TBL * TBL * TBL ***

Mr. Kaplan snapped on the thin rubber gloves, then frowned as she always did when she first laid eyes on the cratered scars covering Raymond Reddington's back, shoulder and arm. "You should have phoned me. I don't like waiting for Dembe to call me when you need my help with this."

Reddington ignored the scolding tone as he lay prone on the bed, his right arm extended over his head, his left lying protectively against his side. "I didn't need help; Dembe should have kept his mouth shut." He grimaced and gripped the pillow at the first feeling of pressure from her hands, then clenched his jaws and forced himself to breathe in through his nose and out through his teeth.

"And that would have been so much better?" The cold anesthetic cream touched his skin. His breath hitched at the shock, then he eased into the rhythmic movements of her hands. "The cold weather, the heavy activity… and stress. Stress makes this worse, Raymond, and if I know one thing, it's how much stress you can add to your own life."

"I've only done what needed to be—_oh—_that's just amazing. Keep doing that. That there, right there. —what needed to be done."

"You're going to be the death of me one day," Mr. Kaplan said, as she added more cream to his back and gently but steadily continued to rub it in.

"I would never extend that favor to you… not unless you really wanted me to."

"Be quiet, young man, or I'll _slap_ this back."

"I have no doubt, you crazy old woman." He stopped the banter and allowed himself to get lost in the practiced, persistent circles that were soothing him into relaxation. He'd become accustomed to the occasional breakthrough pain, and the chronic difficulty of living with the aftereffects of such a horrendous injury, so much so that he hardly noticed the sometimes awkward way he moved, or sat, or dressed, or undressed. Apparently those around him weren't as unobservant about it. And the blissful, unexpected relief Mr. Kaplan's attention was giving him now made him grateful they weren't.

Mr. Kaplan's voice, now less brusque, filtered through the haze. "What about this arm?" she asked. "Does it need stitching?"

"I've taken care of it," he answered cryptically.

"That doesn't tell me anything."

"That's right."

"Stubborn."

"Learned that from you."

Another period of quiet. Eventually, Mr. Kaplan felt Red's shoulders and the muscles in his back go slack. "Is that better?"

A drowsy smile crossed Red's lips. "I'm _this close_ to purring like a cat. The things you do with your hands. If you were twenty years younger…"

"_Twenty years younger?" _she protested, not truly annoyed._ "_I've already warned you, dearie: when you're at my mercy, don't piss me off."

Red chuckled lightly. "Fine, fine; if _I_ were ten years _older."_

"That's more like it."

Three more minutes of her silent ministrations and Red was nearly out. Mr. Kaplan's voice drew him back. "Has this been bothering you long?"

"Hm? I dunno," Red mumbled, raising his eyebrows but not bothering to open his eyes. "Just keep… keep…"

His words trailed off and his furrowed brow uncreased as he fell completely asleep. Mr. Kaplan stopped her work and just watched him for a moment, thinking how rare it was to see him at rest. Dembe had told her little, but she knew from the unsettled look on the Sudanese man's face when she arrived, and from the patched up wound on Red's own left arm, that there had been quite dangerous activity, to say the least. It didn't surprise her. But knowing the abuse that Red was capable of tolerating, she was grateful for the chance to bring him a little bit of peace.

She peeled off the gloves and dropped them into a wastebasket under the ornate desk nearby, then drew the bedsheet up lightly halfway up Red's back. She took a final look at Reddington as she opened the door, then turned back and nearly collided with Elizabeth Keen, who had her hand up as if she had been about to knock when the door was opened.

"Mr. Kaplan," Liz greeted, surprised. "I need to see Red."

"He's asleep," Mr. Kaplan replied.

"Then wake him up," Liz insisted. Mr. Kaplan tried to come out and pull the door shut behind her, but Liz wouldn't get out of the way. "Reddington needs to know about this."

"Agent Keen, he's just fallen asleep, and I don't want—"

"_Please_." Liz's pitch and volume rose with her agitation. "I _have_ to talk to him. It's about Tom—"

"It's all right, Mr. Kaplan," came Red's voice from inside the room.

She turned back to her employer and nodded. Liz looked past her and saw Red in profile, swinging his feet over the side of the bed. "Red—"

"Just let me get dressed first, Lizzie."

Red's rebuff in a groggy but not unkind voice pulled her up, and her eyes were now drawn to the large white patch of gauze on his arm. With a pang of guilt she remembered that Tom had actually shot Red earlier that day. She had not given it a thought at the time, nor even after things had calmed down. True to form, Red hadn't mentioned it, or even reacted to it. He'd just kept moving, as he always did, clearly used to, or at least tolerant of, pain and injury. She wondered how deep the wound actually was, as spots of blood were visible through the dressing. Engrossed in thought, her mind now replayed her last encounter with Tom over and over again, while her eyes unthinkingly followed Red's moves as he reached out with his right hand to a dress shirt draped over a nearby chair, then slowly drew the sleeve up his stiff arm, being careful to avoid the wound. As he began to draw the shirt across his back, he looked up, as though conscious of being observed, and locked eyes with her, then without changing expression stood and turned fully toward her as he continued to pull the shirt across his back and over his other shoulder.

The piercing stare broke her out of her reverie, and, embarrassed to have him think she'd been watching him, she turned away. It was only then that her mind registered what she had actually seen.

Scars.

Burn scars.

The top of Red's left arm, his shoulder and his back were a virtual landscape of once-boiled flesh, a topographic map of a yellow-whitish desert, with craters and tightly pulled peaks of skin that would have taken more than a mere touch of heat to create, and more than a few months to recover from.

Probably more than a few years.

Liz's stomach flipped as she imagined Red screaming in agony as flames drilled their heat into his body. An inevitable flash of memory of the fire she'd been in as a child raced through her mind, and fear shot up her spine. She gasped, covering her mouth to muffle the sound, and squeezed her eyes shut to try and push the images, both real and imagined, away. How had that he acquired such horrific burns? And when? Her mind whirled with possibilities, and when a particular one struck her, she spun back toward the room, only to find Red looking at her, shirt buttoned but not tucked in, an expectant look on his face.

"Lizzie," he greeted, "come in."

Mr. Kaplan let her pass into the room and looked to him for instructions. "Thank you, Mr. Kaplan. That will be all I need for awhile."

Mr. Kaplan simply nodded and left, closing the door behind her.

"Lizzie," Red said again, his tone bright. He gestured to the desk chair beside the bed. "Please sit."

Still overwhelmed by the visions and thoughts chasing each other around her brain, she just looked at him. How could everything she had thought—everything she had _known_—about him be so wrong?

He put his hand on the back of the chair. "Sit," he offered again, his eyebrows raised questioningly as he looked into her eyes.

Liz opened and shut her mouth once or twice, trying to find the right words to say what she was thinking. "Red, your ba—"

"Tom," Reddington reminded her. She blinked back to the present and looked at him. She wondered if he knew exactly what was on her mind, and as he usually did, was simply deflecting her curiosity about him onto something else. She sat. Then he sat down on the edge of the bed and looked at her. "Tell me about Tom, Lizzie."

Liz nodded. "He's gone."

Red frowned, tilted his head, and rested his arms on his thighs as he leaned in toward her. "Lizzie, I'm sorry. I know this has been a big shock for you—"

"No, I mean Tom is gone. He's _gone. _The authorities went back to clear the site and his body wasn't there. Only the man who pretended to be Berlin was there."

Red quirked his lips and sat upright. "I thought you said he was dead."

"He _was._ He died in front of me," Liz insisted.

"Then either you were mistaken, or he was more valuable to Berlin than either of us knew."

"I _wasn't _mistaken. He's _dead._ He can't _possibly_ be alive."

"Never say _can't._ People often survive things that others thought impossible to overcome." Red paused, and then added, "In either case, he continues to be a mystery. And I'm sorry for that, Lizzie. Because I know it causes you pain."

Red leaned over again and this time laid a gentle hand on her knee. Liz looked at his smooth skin, for a moment allowing herself to wonder how a man with such a rough history could maintain such beautiful hands. Then she thought of the incredible contrast to his scarred and pock-marked back, and she looked back up into his eyes.

A smile—a mix of sadness and enigma—adorned his face. "You're blaming yourself somehow," he surmised. "Lizzie, I promise, you did exactly what you had to—"

"I saw your back," she blurted out.

Red closed his mouth, then sat back, removing his hand from her knee. He said nothing.

"I didn't mean to look, but the door was open and—" She stopped; she was rambling. "Your back is burned."

Red continued to study her closely. He nodded once, but offered nothing.

"How did it happen?" she asked.

He quirked his lips again, almost as though he were chewing on words. "Lizzie," he began.

"Did you pull me out of that fire?" she asked suddenly. "When I was a little girl?"

"Not every man who has burns was in that fire," Red answered quietly.

Her eyes bored back into his, looking for answers even if he was trying to hide them. "You're connected to my father."

Red met her unwavering gaze with one of his own. "I am."

"And I remember… I remember he saved me from the fire."

"You do."

"He protected me." Red simply nodded. _"You_ protect me."

Red's voice got quieter. "I do."

Liz's expression softened. "Red," she practically whispered, "those burns were severe…horrific. The pain would have been excruciating. The recovery would have been…awful. The only way to survive something like that would have been… to know that whatever you did that resulted in you suffering those burns was worth it."

Red looked at her with an intensity that both comforted her and unnerved her. "It was."

"Red… are _you_ the man I remember saving me?"

"Lizzie, _your father_ died in that fire."

But she wasn't ready to let it go. "That wasn't my question."

At that, Red reached out and gripped her by the upper arms. "Lizzie. You are special. You are very, _very_ special. And it would be an honor to be your father. But I am not." When he was certain she was absorbing his words, he shook his head and repeated, his voice rough with emotion, _"I am not."_

Tears sprung into her eyes, the power of Red's words, and his earnestness, touching her deeply. "What if I'm remembering wrong?" she asked in a small voice. "What if it's you who saved me—even if you're _not_ my father? What if all of those horrible things I've accused you of are untrue?"

A small, melancholy smile touched the corner of Reddington's lips. "Would that be such a bad thing?" he asked. When Liz's eyes widened in horror, he let out a soft huff of a chuckle, then grew serious again. "Lizzie. Seeing this changes nothing. Your father is dead; he died in that fire. Sam loved you as his own until his dying breath. And I… I will always do what I have to do, to keep you safe." He smiled again, weakly. "Even a monster can do one noble thing."

Liz tried to smile, but the tears rolling down her cheeks betrayed her real feelings. Red raised a hand to her cheek, brushed away a tear with his thumb. "Go ask Dembe to make you a cup of tea. I'll finish dressing and we'll talk about this development regarding Tom."

Liz smiled gratefully, then offered a quiet protest. "I woke you up—you had a _huge_ day, and Tom _shot _you and I didn't even consider… You need to rest."

Red stood up and drew her up with him. "I'm fine," he told her. "I don't sleep for long anyway. I'm sure I'll be refreshed just looking across the room at you. Go." He turned her toward the door, and she reluctantly allowed herself to be gently pressed forward. She stopped when he called after her, "Thank you, Lizzie."

She regarded him quizzically. "What for?"

Once more his direct look took her breath away. "For thinking that you might be wrong."

"Am I wrong, Red?" she murmured.

Red shook his head. "No. But the fact that you weren't disgusted at the prospect is the nicest compliment anyone's paid me in a long, long time."

Liz smiled and slipped out of the room. Red sat down on the bed, closed his eyes, and remembered.


End file.
